


Faces Lost and Friends Gone

by craple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Assassination, Drabble, Gen, Identity Swap, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sharpens her dagger and thinks of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faces Lost and Friends Gone

**Author's Note:**

> ugh, another House of Black and White drabble. I probably should make a collection out of this, but, whatever.

The order to assassinate Gendry – just Gendry, no title of _ser_ or last name of where he was knighted; she knows that and more, but that knowledge belongs to Arya of House Stark, and she’s _dead_ – comes one morning as she has just finished practising the trident.

Atthalea does not cry, even as the side of her throat is slashed. Three jagged ugly lines that will not leave a mark the next day, as she is cleansed with the water beneath the statue of The Stranger. Meaning her time has not yet come.

But then again, none of them will be called upon soon enough, Arya realises. In here they are not god, but they are His instruments, as such, they are immortals.

She does not take notice upon the request. Her attention is more taken by the sight of Soleuil, the man who used to be Patel, Jaqen H’ghar, _no one_ – showing her the way of a crossbow, teaches her how to make fire from the oil of their targets (not victims, _never_ victims) with the tip of her new weapon.

Kindly Old Man approaches her when the sun is done, for the day. As Soleuil is cleaning the wound Atthalea left behind with the help of his Red God, the poisonous flute he prefers rests by his side, the dagger Umma gave her as a present rests by _hers_.

No Faceless Men shall kill the other, they say. Yet no Faceless Men shall trust one another, is the truth.

Umma is the one who hands her the request, and Kindly Old Man watches from afar. Jaqen – _Soleuil_ – says nothing, but he cleans the sour milk caking her hair all the same. Sews the gaping spears-wound on her back with deft, clever fingers.

“How much did they pay for his head?” the girl asks, in lieu of _whom_ , as it is known to not ask a question which answer one already knows about. “Plenty,” comes the reply, and Arya goes beneath the Temple to retrieve her mask of a beautiful young boy, the dagger kept close to her hip.

It is easy, she supposes. To kill Gendry without any remorse. Slit his throat open like she did to every men and women that came before him, does her chores within the House of Black and White and waits for another assignment.

Yet the girl – Grey now, from Greywind, the direwolf of a brother Arya Stark long lost – cannot find it in herself to kill him that way. He was her friend, once, before he betrayed her for knighthood and went about his business. He was part of Arya Stark’s pack. She cannot do this without looking at his face one last time.

For her, it is easy to infiltrate the Brotherhood. She does what she always does (give direction for desperate men to rob, watch the scene unfold, heroically break the fight apart and kill said desperate men, least they notice). A routine she cannot break, one she cannot find it in herself to _stop_ doing.

Gendry does not recognise her at all. He greets her without a smile, sour face giving her suspicious looks every time she moves. It isn’t until Grey – the man Grey, Grey who has a cock and foul mouth yet polite manners of Volantis; Grey with his blonde hair and charming smile – pushes Gendry against the wall and lets Gendry fuck him against the same wall, that he starts to _trust_ , and the girl beneath Grey’s appearance feels nothing still.

That night, after Gendry takes him again (and again and again), she slips the mask off her face. Slips the magic off her body and _burns_ it on the back of the inn. Her dagger is sharp, shining and beautiful, and it is beautiful still the moment she slits the tip across Gendry’s neck. Keeping him silent as he watch her face with horror – the Arya Stark he knew, not Grey the Lover he took – as it is only polite to do so.

Looking around, the girl is satisfied to see that no one has woken up yet. One last look at the man lying beneath her, she sharpens her knife and thinks of home.


End file.
